


Turning Point

by Frangipanidownunder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-26 19:28:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13864446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frangipanidownunder/pseuds/Frangipanidownunder
Summary: Follow up to Catharsis in which Jackson meets Chris Carter...





	Turning Point

A grey sliver of light cuts across the sterile room as he watches Carter open the door and put his hands on his hips, gazing around the room. He walks to the camera and looks through, twisting it around and making adjustments. Carter steps back and smiles.

“Think it’s going to be good, do you?” He doesn’t sit up yet, just keeps watching Carter as the simple expression on the older man’s face darkens.

“Who’s there?” Carter’s voice sounds a little wary. “This is a closed set. You’re not supposed to be here.”

“But I’m in this scene.”

Carter steps to the side of the camera. “The actors are taking a break. Show yourself.”

The noise of a zip running along its track is decidedly creepy in a soundless room set up as a morgue. Jackson smiles to himself as he unzips the bag further and lifts his arms out, sitting up. He runs a hand through his hair, feels the bangs flopping down either side. He needs a haircut but this man feels that the character would have long floppy hair. Something about how the youth currently wear it.

“I’m William, apparently,” he says, pulling his knees up to free his feet. “You put me here. To play dead in front of my birth mother. That’s some messed up shit, man.”

Carter balks, takes a step back. “You’re not…Miles is…who are you?”

Jackson straightens his top. “I don’t know, Chris, man? Who am I? Am I Jackson or am I William? Am I a skater boi or a fuck boi? Am I good or am I a complete and utter douche?”

Carter turns and bolts for the door but it slams shut and locks. He scrabbles at it, scratching and pulling it. “Open the door.” He’s banging frantically. Jackson finds it all highly amusing. Maybe he is a fuck boi.

“Pretty neat trick, huh? Me being telepathic and all.”

Carter turns round, presses himself against the door. “This is telekinesis. Not telepathy.”

Jackson sits on the gurney. “Well now you just sound like my dad. Well, like Mulder. Cos, is he my father? I’m not sure where we’re up to on that point.”

“Let me out.”

“Why? Are you scared of your own creations?”

“You’re not my creation.”

“No, I’m Mulder and Scully’s. They wanted me so badly. They willed me into existence,” he lets out a chuckle, then adds, in a whisper, “They fucked, didn’t they?”

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he fishes it out. He’s missed twenty-seven messages from Sarah and Bri. How can he tell them who he is, where he is, if he isn’t sure himself? And if his creator isn’t even clear.

“Why did I make my girlfriends attack each other? Why do I have two girlfriends?”

The visions still pinball around his brain, screams and fear and blood. Why did he do that? He’s messed up beyond fuck boi level. Somewhere, deep in the pit of his mind, he finds a memory of breaking his arm, of his eyes glowing in his face. Are there any good memories? He pushes deeper. King Kong, first day of school, rockets flying to space. He lets out a breath, relaxes for a nanosecond. Then he’s floating away…floating out. He closes his eyes, clears his mind of the horror and sings, not quite a lullaby, but a song that’s comforting beyond measure. Joy to the world…

“Your girlfriends aren’t real,” Carter is saying. “And I didn’t write this episode.” His voice is a pitch higher and he’s still trying to open the door.

“Right…because you actually think that people don’t fuck so I wouldn’t have any girlfriends, would I? And if I did, they’d be nuns or something.”

Carter clears his throat. “Lovemaking is sacred. It’s not to be taken lightly.”

Jackson throws his head back and cackles. “Fucking brilliant. Fucking is brilliant. I mean, what else is there in our shitty lives that’s both intensely pleasurable and generally free? Man, you are one sad little human being. How’s your relationship with your wife, by the way?”

He itches the dried blood on the side of his head. “This fake death thing. Are you really sure about going ahead with it?”

Carter stiffens. “We need to see Scully bare her emotional soul. It’s a turning point in the narrative arc. Besides, all the fans out there claim they thrive on the angst.”

“There’s a difference between angst and torture, Chris, my man.” The flake of blood flutters down in front of him. “And having my mother abducted, experimented on, impregnated without her consent or knowledge, to lose that child days after she found her, to finally get it on with the love of her life only to lose him, to find herself miraculously pregnant and then have to give up the baby, to go on the run and lose her job and life, to finally get some happiness with Mulder only to push him into a case that tears them apart again and then to leave him for dubious reasons, flirt with a giant bag of dicks, watch her mother die and then have some kind of seizure that results in her sharing my vision of the end of the world hasn’t been enough emotion for one eleven season run?”

“It’s just a show…it’s not real.”

“Tell that to the characters. We have feelings, Chris. I’m pretty sure Dana Katharine Scully who walked into that basement office 25 years ago would not have wanted to go through all those things.”

Carter smiles then and Jackson pushes himself off the gurney, pushes a finger into the fake blood and smears it over his palms. He walks towards the older man and holds his hands up.

Carter flinches back, his hair bright against the dark of the door. “Scully once said she wouldn’t change a thing.”

“Ah, yes. Cherry pick a convenient line of dialogue and gloss over the lack of continuity and character development. You make a central character miraculously pregnant and then have no idea how to write the show with her being a mother. A baby. What an inconvenience. I know we’ll have him taken and then, well, she’ll just have to give him up, because of his safety. What a martyr I’ve created. But she’s strong, she’s fine. We’ll just never mention it again and move on with the real stuff. The aliens. The conspiracy. All the things people who truly understand the show want to see.”

Jackson stretches his arm above Carter’s head and looms over him. Carter lets out a tiny mewl. “There was a show once, where the male and female lead fell in love over the course of many seasons. They were both professionals. They kept their distance for fear of losing the thing they valued the most – each other, in whatever way that came. But eventually it became too much to push the feelings away. They acted on their feelings. Declared their love. And do you know what happened to them, Chris?”

“Well, clearly the show ended at that point because a narrative needs tension, needs the push and pull to drive it forward. Who wants to watch a show where nothing happens?” Carter tries to lift himself up but bumps into Jackson’s under arm and cowers away again.

“Actually, that show carried on with them as partners, in life and professionally. Because people can actually fall in love and stay in love and viewers kind of like happiness.”

“The X Files is not a happy show,” Carter says.

Jackson feels his phone buzz. “Apparently not, man. Misery reigns. In the script I get to torment my parents by faking my death and then I disappear onto the very roads they’ve spent years travelling. Kill me now.” He taps the bloody hole on his head. “But of course, nobody dies on the X Files.”

Carter shifts away, backs into the corner. “It’s science fiction,” he says, flinging a hand out towards him. “Besides, there’s the finale. You’re in it. You have to close the loop.”

“Ah yes, My Struggle 27. Great. The viewers are really pumped for that sick ep, man.”

“I’ve had it planned for years.”

Jackson laughs. “Even if I believed that, it means you spend all your time thinking about a show that probably should have ended in the 90s. You do realise we’re not still in the 90s, Chris.”

“I’ve always said the X Files could go on and on. And it will.”

The vibration of his phone distracts him from the arrogant look that passes Carter’s face. “What should I tell my girlfriends? That I’m sorry I tried to get them to kill each other? That I’m dead? They’re ringing me. They love me. I think I love them.”

Carter blanches then chuffs, “They’re going to be fine.”

“When I run off and leave them? When they find out my parents are dead?” He stops and takes a breath. Feels it hitching in his chest. “You killed my parents. And Mulder and Scully don’t get to know me. That’s just cruel, dude.” He flicks his hair out of his face, lunges towards Carter. Carter skips back, squealing as he crashes into the table of medical supplies. Jackson straddles him, places his hands on his chest, rips open the shirt and twists his head as he lowers it.

“What are you doing? Get off me!” Carter is half-screaming, half-crying.

“Shhhh,” Jackson says. “I’m trying to listen to hear if you have a heart.”

Carter quietens. His head flops down against the tiled floor. “Please leave me alone. I’ve done nothing wrong. We listened to the fans. We’ve given them what they want. Mulder and Scully appeared to spend the night together. We even mentioned handcuffs. What else do these people need? This is a serious science fiction show. There has to be conflict, tragedy, conspiracy. It’s what people want to see.”

Jackson shakes his head and gets up. “You just don’t get it, dude. You just don’t.” He straightens up, pushes his hair out of his face. “But you know what? I know my character is safe. I know there is a world out there where I’m being written into my birth parents’ lives, where I get to hit a ball with Mulder, where I get to debate faith and science with Scully, where I get the Skinman taking me on a boy’s weekend only to find out it’s a fishing trip. I want to go to Lake Okobogee, I want to see Big Blue, I want to visit Sheila and Holman. There’s a whole universe where I get a happy life. Imma gonna take that one, thank you very much.” He heads to the door.

Carter blocks him. “Wait, what?”

“I’m going. I’m going to be William. Jackson’s a mess, man. I’m going to be the William who lives safely in fanfiction. I don’t want to spend my days driving around aimlessly, having visions, being emo, witnessing the end of times. I’m 17 man! I have this gift, this transference thing. Let me live with it how I want to. Let me prank Mulder with it. But only for fun. No more blood, dude. No more lies.”

“But we haven’t got to your turning point. Your end game. We’ve got to wrap up your arc.” Carter presses himself against the door.

Jackson laughs. “Nah. Just do the usual unresolved cliffhanger shit, man. I’m outta here.”

As he walks out of the set he sees the red-haired woman. She’s running lines with the tall, dark-haired man. They look so good together. He can feel their arms around him, hear their sweet murmurings. They turn and smile at him.

“Hey Chris,” the woman says.

“Ready to go?” the man asks.

“Sure am,” Jackson says, as he walks past.


End file.
